Silent Night
by lastincurableromantic
Summary: While celebrating her first Christmas with the metacrisis Doctor, Rose thinks about her Time Lord.


The colorful fairy lights strung around the room twinkled gaily, matching the strands that circled the Tyler family Christmas tree. Unlike in the more public areas of the mansion—the grand entrance with its 14 foot white tree, delicate silver and blue ornaments hanging from its limbs and flanked by the twin staircases trimmed in gold and silver garland, so breathtaking that its image graced the cover of a magazine; the ballroom with smaller versions of the tree in the hall in the corners of the room and crystal snowflakes suspended from the ceiling; the formal dining room with its series of frosted wreaths on the walls and coordinating centerpieces on the table—the large living room in the back of the house had not been decorated for the holiday by an interior designer. And it showed. It showed in the mismatched ornaments on the tree, the cheap red and green garland trimming the tops of all the furniture and hanging in long loops from the crown molding, the ceramic figurines of Father Christmas on the mantle. The enormous plush reindeer in the corner that was sturdy enough for even Pete to sit on. The paper snowflakes carefully cut out by a five-year-old with safety scissors and attached to the windows with cellotape.

The personal, loving touches that spoke of family and couldn't be recreated by a decorator, not at any price.

As was tradition in Pete's family, if not in Rose's, Tony had been allowed to open one present that evening. Being five, of course he had chosen the largest, one so large that it had been propped up against the wall because it hadn't fit under the tree. So as Christmas carols quietly played on the flatscreen that hung on the far wall and her mother fussed over Christmas Eve dinner in the kitchen, the Doctor, Pete and Tony sat on the floor putting together an enormous electric train set. It currently circled the entire room, with offshoots that looped around the tree and around the twin leather sofas and under the tables. The Doctor and Pete had charted out the most elaborate path possible with Tony excitedly handing them pieces and crawling under the tables to lay track where the men couldn't reach.

This was what Christmas was about. Not the crass commercialism pushed by businesses trying to improve their bottom lines before the end of the year. Not the gigantic Vitex bash filled with people more interested in networking than in celebrating the season. No, it was the joy of giving. The happiness of a child. Spending time as a family.

Love.

Christmas had always been magical to her. In a childhood often characterized by deprivation, Rose had adored everything about it: the lights and garland suspended over the high street and trimming the eaves of the buildings; the Christmas dioramas in the shop windows, their miniature figures skating on frozen ponds or sledding down snow-covered hills; the music that emanated from every shop and every tube station. Christmas crackers and turkey with all the trimmings. Presents under the tree (particularly a certain red bicycle anonymously given when she'd been twelve). Creches and candles and hymns. The Tylers had never been religious (she could count the number of times she'd gone to church on one hand with several fingers left over) but as much as Rose had loved Christmas in all its secular glory, even as a child she had also loved the quietness, the wonder, the solemnity of the season. The story of the birth of a child in humble circumstances. The idea of divine love made manifest in humanity. Things unseen, things beyond the comprehension of a child.

And as an adult, they were still beyond comprehension. And rightly so. She more than most knew (not just believed but knew) there was more to life than could be seen with the eye, or that could ever be explained away by logic.

As the Doctor quoted frequently, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." This was usually directed at some officious, self-important know-it-all at Torchwood, and as the king of know-it-alls (who usually did know it all) he had no patience for pretension and pomposity in others. But he never directed it at her. Not once. Because that had been apparent to her from that first moment in the basement of Henrik's, when plastic mannequins had come to life before her eyes, and the Doctor had taken her hand and told her to run. No, ever since she'd met him, she'd known that life was madder than she'd ever imagined. Madder than she ever could imagine.

And that was never more apparent than in the current circumstances of her own life, living in an entirely different universe than she'd been born into, married to a man born in the stars whose first act was helping save the multiverse.

From her position on the sofa, Rose watched as the Doctor and Pete debated where to lay the next branch line as they were rapidly running out of floor space in the living room. As Pete counted the remaining unused track and the Doctor calculated whether they had enough to run it out into the hall, Tony climbed into the Doctor's lap, content to let the adults do the planning.

Rose smiled softly. It was at times like these that she felt the most grateful for her life. For her mother and stepfather and brother whom she'd been prepared to leave and then didn't have to give up. For the man who'd stayed, who had taken vows, promising to spend his forever with her. For the child in her womb whom she'd never expected to have and who she already loved more than life itself.

For the one so far away whose self-sacrifice had given them so much.

Unshed tears prickled her eyes as she thought of him, feeling the sharp pain of his absence as keenly as when she'd first lost him. She swallowed hard and attempted to put on a cheerful face in case the others looked in her direction. But from hard-won experience she knew it was an exercise in futility.

All of a sudden it was too much: the music, the lights, the brightly colored decorations and packages and the scent of Christmas dinner and the frenetic energy of her little brother. It was just… too much. Too much sound, too much light, too much color, too much… everything. So while the Doctor, Pete and Tony laid track out of the room and into the hall, she quietly slipped out through the French doors, seeking the silence of the garden.

It was a clear night. They were far enough away from London that the stars were visible, and tonight they looked enormous, twinkling diamonds scattered in a sky of black velvet, echoing the one she wore on her finger. As she watched, leaning against the garden wall, arms hugging herself against the chill of the evening, tiny blinking lights slowly crossed the sky, red and green for the season, the running lights of a lone zeppelin heading to an unknown destination.

It wasn't the first time she'd done this, come out to this very spot to stargaze, to look out at the stars and imagine he was out there somewhere, flying through them in his magical blue box, having adventures and saving the universe. But he wasn't. Not in this universe anyway.

It was at times like these when she wondered if he was okay wherever he was, if he was alone, if he ever thought about them. Wondered what he'd think of their lives on the slow path.

Lost in her thoughts, she had no idea how long she'd been out there when the door quietly opened and closed behind her, and it was only when a coat was wrapped around her shoulders followed by warm arms wrapping around her from behind that she realized how much she was shivering. Long, slender hands gently settled on her softly rounded belly. She laid her hands over his, as always taking a moment to feel the plain gold band on his left hand. She'd thought he was sexy in his glasses, but that was before she'd realized there was nothing sexier than to see her ring on his finger.

"Are you two all right?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. Just hormonal." She sniffed, the sound overloud in the quiet of the night, and smiled wryly.

His arms tightened around her as he kissed her cheek. She knew he knew what she was thinking about, why she was out here under the stars. Because at times like these one thinks of family, particularly absent family, and after all, that's what the other was, would always be.

"Do you think he's all right?" she asked, as if continuing a conversation they'd been having. She knew he knew what she meant, because they'd talked about this many times before, ever since they'd been left on a lonely beach in Norway nearly a year ago. She was so grateful to him: for being so patient with her, for his willingness to talk about the other, and for listening as she worked out her complicated feelings for them both.

"Oh, you know him. He's always all right."

She didn't answer that. They both knew it was a lie.

"I'm being selfish," she said quietly, after a long moment.

"No, you're being yourself: caring, compassionate, couple of other adjectives starting with c…"

Despite herself, the corners of her mouth twisted upward, and she spun in his arms, wrapping her arms around him. He grinned down at her.

"There. Made you smile."

"You always do." She took a deep breath. "'S just, I'm so happy. Somehow it doesn't seem right."

"This is what he wanted for you, to have a fantastic life."

She nodded. "And I do. We do."

"Yes, we do."

She rested her head against his chest and tightened her arms around him, seeking more than warmth from him. Something nameless. Something that felt like forgiveness.

"I just—" Her voice broke and she was unable to continue. Unable to articulate everything she was feeling. Missing the absent one. Gratitude for the gift of this life he'd given them.

Love for them both.

"Oh, he knows," the Doctor said quietly. "He knows."


End file.
